


Indian Winter

by MarillaTortoise



Category: Chasing a Legacy
Genre: F/F, F/M, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Warnings for everything potentially triggering that was in CaL
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:01:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26126185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarillaTortoise/pseuds/MarillaTortoise
Summary: What happened to Élodie during her tragic months in India?Radha Batra is hired as lady's maid in the household of Eugene and Élodie Auclair during their stay in the British-occupied hill town of Simla, India. Struggling to balance obeying orders with helping her vulnerable mistress, Radha becomes increasingly embroiled in the web of dark family secrets, threatening her and everyone she loves.Spoilers for Chasing a Legacy.
Relationships: Élodie Auclair/OC
Comments: 20
Kudos: 28





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A few notes on language: I am by no means an expert on colonial India, so I'm using a mixture of research and personal experience for the Hindustani used in this fic. Most terms will be translated in-text so that readers don't have to scroll and find them, but here are some key terms:
> 
> -ji - an honorific suffix, added to the end of a person's name to show respect  
> didi - 'big sister', term of endearment/respect  
> sahib - a term of respect for a white European or other person of rank in colonial India  
> memsahib - the feminine version of sahib

_August, 1857. Simla, northern India._

“Are white mistresses kind?”

Radha Batra sat cross-legged on her low cot, her bones tired and her skin tingling. This was the third day that she and her elder sister Ganga had spent working in the illustrious Shambhala Manor. With the other staff they had scrubbed the mansion from top to bottom, airing out the large rooms and sweeping every panelled floor to prepare for the new master and mistress’ arrival. The luggage wagons had begun to arrive on the afternoon of the second day, and they had carefully unwrapped the china, silverware, linens and clothing, and placed them in their proper positions. When they had finally been given the order to retire, they had needed to scrub themselves from head to toe before finally collapsing onto their cots. Now Radha could lean back against Ganga and allow her damp hair to be brushed in long, firm strokes. It allowed her to ignore the nerves that churned her stomach.  
  
“Kind? They are like all other mistresses.”  
  
As usual, Ganga’s tone was practical. She was the eldest of all the Batra children, and at seventeen years old, she was like a second mother. Sometimes Radha found herself resenting that a mere eighteen months longer in this life had endowed Ganga with such power and responsibility. However, in times like these, it was reassuring to have someone to follow.  
  
“Mrs Whittaker was kind, I suppose,” Ganga continued. “She was a good mistress, and neither of us would have been given this position without her reference - she vouched for our family’s good character. And she taught me a little bit of French - _oui, non, s’il vous plait, merci beaucoup_ \- though she thought I didn’t see her laughing at how I spoke.”  
  
“Perhaps the new mistress will teach me French, then?” Radha did not understand the foreign words, but that made them all the more enticing. The wives of the East India Company men were highly educated, everyone knew it, and to learn another language would certainly make the position of lady's maid worthwhile.  
  
“Don’t you dare ask her.” Ganga’s tone turned sharp. “Mr Govind was very clear that the staff are forbidden from speaking French. English only - those were the instructions in the letter from the new master.”  
  
Mr Govind was the Indian butler, the proxy for the master and mistress while they travelled up from Bombay. He had insisted on being called _Mr Govind-ji sir_ , repeating it so many times that Radha was still unsure whether he had been playing a joke on them or not.  
  
“Why would the new master make a rule like that?”  
  
Radha’s imagination began to spin some interesting possible answers. Perhaps he had learnt French at school, and been humiliated by being caned by his teacher in front of the whole class? Perhaps his mother had died, and his father’s nasty new wife had been a Frenchwoman? Or perhaps he had once eaten very bad food in a French restaurant, and forever associated that terrible meal with the French language? She could practically see a red-faced, mousy-haired white man, the likes of whom she had seen in Simla ever since she had been a little girl, tossing a plate of some unidentifiable European food at a hapless cook and screaming that he would never allow even a whisper of French in the vicinity of his person. She stifled a snicker at the image.  
  
“It doesn’t matter why,” Ganga told her. “We just have to obey. Here, your hair is finished.”  
  
Radha accepted the brush from Ganga, and they swapped positions. Ganga’s hair was no longer or thicker than her own, but it still looked better. The nape of Ganga’s neck, revealed as the hair was drawn aside, was fairer than Radha could ever dream of being. Ganga’s beauty and fairness may not have earned her the job of head housemaid - her experience and skill had done that - but they had undoubtedly helped. Her eyes were even flecked with a colour almost like green, which enchanted anyone who looked into them. Their father said that it was a remnant from the Persians who had passed through the Punjab many generations ago, leaving behind light hair and eyes in families in Simla and the surrounding villages. Any girl in her right mind would envy Ganga’s fair skin, her straight nose, and her graceful posture. She would have a wonderful marriage arranged for her in the summer, no doubt.  
  
Radha, on the other hand, would remain a dark lady’s maid or tailor’s wife all her life. That was if Papa-ji could get anyone to agree to marry her at all, with the black blotch of a birthmark on her face.  
  
“Are you nervous?” Ganga turned her head suddenly, trying to peer back over her shoulder at Radha.  
  
“Don’t jerk like that,” Radha snapped, “or you’ll scream that I pulled your hair.”  
  
As soon as the words were out, she braced herself for a swat around the head for her disrespect.  
  
“You’re never usually so quiet.” Ganga spoke calmly, completely overlooking Radha’s rudeness. “It is natural to be nervous. I felt the same before I took up my post with Mrs Whittaker. They live in a very different way, and you’ll have to do things for your mistress that you never imagined. But you mustn’t worry, _choti_.”  
  
_Little one_. For all Ganga’s poise, she still knew how to be a caring elder sister.  
  
“I’ll be here to tell you everything you need to know, and I won’t let you get lost. I’ll keep you out of trouble, as long as you try to stay out of it.”  
  
“Yes, _didi_.”  
  
At that moment, curled up in the tiny, unfamiliar bedroom with the next morning’s unknown looming threateningly, there was nothing Radha wanted less than to start trouble. True, it often seemed to start without her knowledge - but Ganga could hardly blame her for things beyond her control. Sometimes, Papa-ji would say, things were simply in the hands of the gods.  
  
“What is the most important thing I should know, to be a lady’s maid?” Radha finally asked. She had brushed Ganga’s hair to almost perfect smoothness, the few flyaway strands glinting a brilliant brown-black in the light of their single oil lamp. After a few silent moments, Ganga spoke.  
  
“To be respectful at all times. No matter what you are doing, or what she is doing, she is _memsahib_. Sometimes you might even feel like her mother, but she is always _memsahib_.”  
  
Radha was plaiting Ganga’s hair and mulling over this information when Ganga suddenly winced.  
  
“What happened, _didi_? Did I pull your hair?”  
  
“No, no. I just remembered another very important thing.”  
  
Ganga turned, her expression almost pained.  
  
“The mistress will have you wash her hair in something called honey water. You must always, always, dilute this with plain water before using it. It is terribly expensive, and they have to order it from Europe. Never use it straight from the bottle, do you hear me, Radha?”  
  
“Yes, didi.”  
  
Perhaps it was cruel, but it gave Radha a bit of hope that Ganga, in all her perfection, had once made a mistake.

* * *

  
At noon the next day, word arrived that the master and mistress had reached the town limits. The sound of galloping hooves rolled through the air like summer thunder, and at the end of the line of servants, Radha rubbed at the gooseflesh that had erupted on her bare arms.  
  
“The master and mistress have come all the way from London?” she whispered to Ganga, who stood beside her. They wore the same customary white sari, though Ganga’s was a shade greyer under in the midday sun. It had seen three years of service, after all. Radha had never thought that wearing a bright white sari would make her feel so young.  
  
“From Paris, Mr Govind-ji said,” was Ganga’s hushed reply. She glanced over to the butler, standing at the head of the line with an expression as stern as an East India Company officer. “In France.”  
  
First the horses appeared, then the carriage, rolling heavily along the dirt road. They made a lazy loop from the road past the house, then turned back to pull up directly in front of the entrance, where the household staff had presented themselves. Radha had never seen such a decadent carriage in her life, and that was no small feat; their family hut in the Lower Bazaar had provided a view of some truly opulent vehicles ever since the British had begun to settle in Simla in earnest. The luggage wagons had been shocking enough – “For what do they need all these things?” she had asked Ganga in disbelief as they polished yet another bureau. This carriage, supposedly only transporting the bodies of the master and mistress, seemed the size of a small house. Radha watched, practically transfixed, as the carriage drew to a halt, creaking on its wheels.  
  
“Are they richer in France than in England?” she couldn’t help whispering to Ganga.  
  
“ _Chup!_ Quiet!” Mr Govind barked. She ducked her head quickly, but soon lifted it when she heard the carriage door open, and the thud of boots in the dirt.  
  
The master - _sahib_ , they would call him - was a tall man with light hair. At first Radha saw only his back, as he offered his arm to the next figure to emerge from the carriage. This had to be _memsahib_ , but the haughty, glamorous figure Radha has imagined was nowhere to be seen. This mistress was only a girl, and she wore a dark, heavy dress in a European style completely unsuited even to the mild Himalayan climate. Coils of dark hair fell out from underneath her hat, sticking to her grey face on each side, and the master had to steady her as she stumbled out into the sun. Behind her the horses were panting and nickering, their bodies shiny with sweat.  
  
“Baron Eugene Auclair and Baroness Élodie Auclair,” Mr Govind announced. On cue, the servants sank into deep bows.  
  
Radha’s first thought, her eyes back on the dirt, was that the mistress was the younger sister of the master, and that she would perhaps be enrolled in the British school. But that could not be right - they had been told that the master and mistress were husband and wife, and why would Radha have been hired if the mistress were merely an unmarried girl who would be away at boarding school?  
  
“Very good,” came the master’s voice, and Radha straightened up as fast as could still be considered respectful, staring at her new employers. Her knowledge of English was not expansive, but even she could tell that his words had come out strangely, as if they had caught in his throat. The baron and baroness were not English at all, she realised, but French. The mistress was swaying slightly in the warm breeze, her eyes glassy, and Radha noticed something that sent a sickly jolt through her body. The mistress’ belly, swamped as it was in that dark dress, was so swollen that it almost threatened to unbalance her. She was expecting a child - but how could it be? She looked to be little more than a child herself!  
  
The master was strolling down the line, Mr Govind close at his heels, inspecting every servant. When she felt Ganga’s elbow in her ribs, Radha ducked her head again, her eyes following the two sets of shoes as they drew ever closer. The two men had left the mistress to stand alone by the carriage, and Radha was suddenly gripped by the fear that she could collapse there, as many a frail European woman had done after the arduous journey from Bombay or Calcutta, and crush her unborn child.  
  
“This one?”  
  
“Head housemaid, sir, Ganga Batra. Very good, very experienced, sir. She has worked in three British households.”  
  
The master made a sound in the back of his throat, and Radha could not tell whether it was approving or derisive.  
  
“And this one?”  
  
“Lady’s maid to the baroness, sir. Her name is Radha.”  
  
“Tell her to look up.”  
  
She understood that much, and couldn’t help feeling a flicker of pride when she raised her head before Mr Govind had time to pass on the order.  
  
“You understand English?” The master’s blue eyes were fixed on her face, and she knew he was staring at the mark on her cheek. She was not used to seeing such light eyes so close, and she had not expected the gaze to feel cold.  
  
“A little English, _sahib_.”  
  
“You are very young.” He sounded distinctly unimpressed, and his eyes didn’t move from the mark. She was used to staring, but she still felt her face growing warm.  
  
“She is nearly sixteen years old, Baron Auclair, sir, and very healthy,” Mr Govind said ingratiatingly. “She can take care of all a lady’s needs, everything the baroness wants.”  
  
“We shall see.” The master cleared his throat, then began to speak in a loud, slow tone. “The travel has made my wife unwell. Draw her a bath, bring her food, and see that she rests.”  
  
He cast an almost careless glance at Ganga. “You will bring refreshments to my study. The rest of you - ” he raised his voice, “ - I will have dinner guests tonight, so prepare the house.”  
  
A smile finally cracked on his lips, and he snapped his fingers loudly, as if any of the servants had not heard his orders. “ _Jaldi jaldi!_ Immediately!”  
  
The servants leapt to attention, splintering off to fulfil their new orders. Radha made for her _memsahib_ , who was rooted to the spot where she had stepped out of the carriage, seeming to stand upright only through sheer force of will. Up close, Radha realised that the mistress’ dress was so dark because it was soaked through with sweat. Baroness Élodie Auclair, Radha thought, was a very grand name for such a small person.  
  
“ _Memsahib_ would like some water?” she asked in halting English, touching her hands together and bowing her head, just as Ganga has taught her. “Some tea or snack?”  
  
“Ah –“ The mistress shook her head. The glassiness was gone from her eyes, Radha noted with a touch of relief. She now had no doubt that she and the other maids would be blamed if the mistress had sickened with fever. Instead, her dark eyes were alert, flickering around and Radha could not help thinking of a cow that had stumbled into a busy thoroughfare.  
  
“ _Français_?” the mistress asked, her voice thin and helpless.  
  
“My apologies, _memsahib_ ,” Radha said automatically, before realising that she would not understand. Ganga had passed on her few words of French, including the word that meant ‘French’, but they were hardly enough to hold a conversation, let alone work out her mistress’ wants and needs. However, sign language or pantomime would not do for communication with the new memsahib, so she frantically combed her mind for any French that might work.  
  
“ _Avec moi_ ,” she managed, offering both hands carefully to the baroness. “ _Avec moi, memsahib_.”  
  
Élodie Auclair’s lower lip trembled very faintly. For a long moment, Radha thought she would refuse. But then she placed her hand into Radha’s - a small, white, clammy hand - and allowed herself to be led into Shambhala Manor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Any feedback at all would be appreciated.
> 
> If anyone needs clarification about the religious references in this fic, I'll give a brief explanation. I've referred both to 'God', singular, and to different 'gods' - specifically Rama, the avatar or incarnation of Vishnu. Even though the different names and statues might suggest otherwise, Hinduism is monotheistic. The singular 'God' to which characters refer is known as Brahman, the highest power and 'ultimate reality' of the universe. The 'gods', like Vishnu, Shiva, Lakshmi and so on, are simply incarnations of Brahman that focus on different things. Vishnu, for example, represents the power of good. He is then incarnated into the world as different avatars whenever he is needed to fight evil. I hope this makes sense! It isn't necessary for understanding the fic but I thought I'd put it here in case anyone is interested.


	2. Chapter 2

“ _Memsahib_ has asked for this?” 

Azad set down his wooden spoon and eyed Radha with suspicion. The pot on the stovetop bubbled and steamed with the smell of meat, and if she had not been so desperate not to offend the cook at this moment, she would have covered her nose. 

“Because _sahib_ was very clear – very clear, you hear me? Only European style food for his wife.”

Before Radha could reply, he continued, his right hand tugging lightly at his long beard, “I told him, sir, I can make any cuisine! English style, European style, Indian style – just tell Azad the favourite foods, and he shall prepare them! And _sahib_ ’s instruction was that he will set all the menus, and that all food for _memsahib_ must be European style.”

“But she is barely eating, sir.” Radha clasped her hands together, hoping that he would be gracious. “For three days days she has only –“

A great crash interrupted her, and she whirled around, sinking automatically into a bow in case the sound was Mr Govind-ji, or worse, the master. Her relief when she realised it was Ganga was only momentary. Her sister was scowling, her face deeply flushed, and she had slammed her tray so hard on the low kitchen table that the dregs of brandy now dripped down the sides of their glasses.

“What are you doing in here?” Ganga's tone was accusing, and she folded her arms tightly across her chest as she spoke.

“Please, _didi_ ,” Radha said quickly, hoping to placate her, “I was just asking Mr Azad to make some kichri for _memsahib_ –“

“ – and I was reminding her,” interrupted Azad, “that _sahib_ said on no account should she have Indian food. ‘No foreign muck,’ he orders. ‘Foreign muck made her sick in Goa,’ he says.” He tugged his beard one final time, then picked up his wooden spoon again to stir the meat stew, taking no special care to stir gently. 

“I have worked in the finest houses in Shimla since the days of Lord Amherst,” he grumbled, more to himself that to the two girls, “and no Britisher has ever had reason to call my food ‘muck’, _mashallah_ . So I make all the French delicacies _sahib_ asks for, and still _memsahib_ never finishes a plate.”

“She only eats bread,” said Radha, “and drinks only ginger tea. She sends away even sweets and flavoured water. I think she is unwell.”

“And why do you care if she is unwell?” Ganga demanded. “You don’t know these white women like I do, Radha. They are always unwell when they come to India, because they cannot stand the heat, or the flies, or the water. They’ve turned Simla into their own little Europe, and still they lie in bed all day, crying because they miss their rich friends, their new fashions, or some sweet that would perish before it finished the journey from England. They care about nothing but themselves. It is useless to try and comfort them.”

She fixed a glare on Radha.

“Do your duty to her and earn your wages, but I am telling you: don’t waste any of your time thinking about her happiness. She certainly never thinks about yours.”

Silence descended over the kitchen, broken only by quiet hissing from the stovetop. Radha’s face was burning. Of course it was Ganga’s right as elder sister to scold her if she had done wrong. It was Radha’s duty to accept the scolding as guidance. And yet, she found herself brimming with indignation, and try as she might, she just could not squash the urge to say something. She drew a deep breath, offered a silent apology to her mother for her disrespect, and spoke.

“If she dies of hunger and kills the baby too, the _sahib_ will be most angry with all of us. If she is truly unwell, the kichri will help her.”

“And if she refuses to eat it, just like she has done everything else?”

“Then we know she is just a spoilt European lady and I will never do it again,” Radha said quickly, hands clasped tight. Ganga did not seem entirely convinced; her frown had softened, but her arms were crossed so tightly it was almost as though she were clutching herself.

“And if _sahib_ wants to know why you have used rice and lentils and butter without his permission?”

“I don’t think _sahib_ thinks about that,” Azad chimed in before Radha could think of a convincing answer. “Govind-ji says there is more housekeeping money every month than he knows what to do with! I can make a bowl of kichri small enough that _sahib_ will not notice any missing rice, even if he reads the kitchen bill three times over.” He pointed his spoon at the sisters. “That, you learn from thirty years working in the best houses.”

Bolstered by his support, Radha turned to her sister and was greeted by a light swat on the side of the head.

“Fine, take your dear _memsahib_ her kichri.” Ganga’s face was set in a serious expression, the likes of which Radha had never seen before. If she had not been so sure she was doing the right thing, it might have made her uneasy. “But you must have respect for _sahib’s_ wishes. I do not want to see you punished.”

* * *

The mistress had her own suite of rooms in Shambhala House. After lunch was served and then returned to the kitchen cold and congealed, Radha entered the apartment with the bowl of kichri. The balcony doors were wide open to allow in some cool air, and the mistress was seated so that she could look out over the mountains. There was a blanket tucked around her legs, and an enamel basin on her knee like a faithful pet. Radha had washed out the basin many times over the last week, but she did not resent the work – it was as though she were taking care of a child.

“Has _memsahib_ asked for anything to eat yet?”

Radha addressed her quiet question to the only other living creature in the still room, a little boy who wielded a fan that seemed as long as he was tall. He undertook his duty as fan boy with great seriousness, his face uncharacteristically solemn for a child younger than ten years old. Perhaps he felt himself to be more important because he also served as tea boy – the master had refused to hire more than one child for the two tasks, and so the child’s skinny arms worked all day at carrying, pouring and fanning.

“No, _didi_ ,” he replied, with great respect, “but she has finished her pot of tea.” 

He glanced quickly at the mistress. Her eyes were closed, and a few loose wisps of her dark hair fluttered in the breeze he was creating with his broad fan. The boy shifted closer to Radha, stretching his body so as not to disturb his work. 

“She sits like this all day,” he mumbled, “ and she doesn’t move or speak. I think there is something wrong with her.”

Radha did not know whose son or nephew or cousin he was, but already she was grateful for his dedication to his duty. It seemed that he was the only other servant who saw what she did.

“Fetch a tray for her,” she told him. He immediately set down his fan and scampered off, but if the mistress noticed that her breeze had vanished, she made no move to show it.

“ _Memsahib_ ,” Radha said, keeping her tone low and soft. “Some food for you.”

She spoke English, even though she knew the baroness barely understood a word. Over the past week Radha had picked up the French words she heard the most often from her mistress – _oui_ , _non_ , and _thé_ were enough to get through most of their interactions. The mistress opened her eyes, and Radha noted their red rims with a prickle of concern. She held out the bowl of kichri.

“ _Non._ ”

Her mistress held up a hand, shaking her head weakly and murmuring something more in French. Radha understood well enough that she did not accept the offering without needing to speak a word of French. In those lowered eyes and the slump of her shoulders she could read the truth – that her mistress was not proud of refusing the food.

“For the baby, _memsahib_ ,” Radha pressed her, not withdrawing the bowl. “For baby’s health.”

The mistress glanced down at her swollen belly, the whites of her eyes flashing with something like panic. It was as if she did not know what it was, or how it had come to be there, and she suddenly looked so very young. Radha knelt down in front of her to offer her the bowl.

“ _Memsahib_ must get better,” she said clearly, holding her mistress’ gaze. Those dark eyes would have been very beautiful, Radha thought sadly, had they not seemed almost bruised by the purple circles beneath them. The attending boy returned with a polished silver tray, and Radha swapped the sick-basin for the bowl and spoon, taking care to place them delicately, so as to hardly make a sound. Steam rose from the soft yellow rice. The mistress’ shoulders rose as she drew in a long breath.

“No _memsahib_ , no baby.” As she spoke, Radha realised that her words could certainly be taken as disrespectful, and yet they slipped out so easily. She was, after all, an elder sister herself.

The mistress gazed at the unfamiliar food for a few long moments, then spoke again in French, her tone questioning.

“It is like porridge, _memsahib_ ,” Radha said, simultaneously hopeful and desperate at the sight of her wavering. “Made of rice…” 

Any other words in either English or French escaped her, and she could only pray that she had said enough.

The mistress’ first spoonful of kichri was scarcely more than a few grains of the soft mixture, and she brought them to her lips gingerly, as if afraid they might sting her. Radha remained in her kneeling posture, scarcely daring to move in case it startled the mistress into changing her mind. Her absolute stillness was a success; the second spoonful was a little larger, and so too was the next, the one after that was practically heaped, and before Radha had realised it, the mistress had finished half the bowl and she herself was beaming.

“ _C’est bien._ ” The mistress set her spoon down on top of her bowl, and for the first time, Radha saw the ghost of a smile on her lips. “ _Très bien_.”

“ _Bien?_ ” Radha repeated, eager to expand her French vocabulary. The word felt strange in her mouth, and she did not think her attempt merited the flash of excitement she was sure she saw in the mistress’ eyes. The mistress straightened herself in her chair and cleared her throat quietly.

“ _Très bien_ ,” she repeated, enunciating so clearly that Radha knew she was trying to teach her.

“ _Très bien._ ” It did not sound quite right, but the mistress seemed very pleased indeed. She took up her spoon again, and Radha silently congratulated herself for saving the poor girl from what she now believed would have been a slow death by wasting.

“ _Très bien, memsahib_ ,” she said, standing upright once more. She bowed, palms pressed together, and would have left her mistress to enjoy the meal in peace, had the mistress not raised a hand and stopped her in her tracks. Unlike the snapped fingers that her husband favoured as a method of communication, this movement was a reach, almost a clutch. For a moment, Radha saw her little brothers and sisters on the doorstep of the family home, reaching out to her and Ganga on the morning that they had left for the servants’ quarters of Shambhala House. No called promises of sending the money back for their schooling had placated them.

The mistress said something unintelligible, pressing her own hand to her chest. Then – “Élodie,” she said, in the firmest tone Radha had heard from her. “Élodie –“ and she tapped her own chest.

“ _Memsahib_?” Radha asked, uncertain.

“ _Non_ ,” was the firm reply. _“Memsahib, non._ Élodie.”

“But that is forbidden, _memsahib_ -” Radha could not help looking around, almost cringing with fear that someone would dismiss her for what she now realised had been her blatantly familiar behaviour.

“Radha.” The mistress’ cold hand caught hers, silencing her. “ _S’il vous plaît_ ,” she said quietly. “Please. _”_

“Élodie?” A male voice rang out from the hallway, and their hands sprang apart as if they had burned each other. Radha stepped back in line with the little boy, who was staring at her in abject amazement. She tucked her hands behind her back to await the master’s entrance, and she watched Élodie – for she could not help thinking of her with that name now, despite all the rules it broke – sink down in her chair.

Baron Eugene Auclair entered the apartment. His gaze flitted over the servants, falling to rest on the bowl on Élodie’s lap tray. He spoke directly to her in French, and although Radha understood absolutely nothing of the meaning, she could hear the sharpness in his tone. _Only European food for memsahib_ , she remembered grimly. Élodie’s voice was faint, but she gave him a reply, and only then did he turn to Radha with narrowed eyes. He was still dressed from his trip into town, and his boots were shiny enough that she was sure she could make out her face reflected in them.

“What is the food my wife ate?” he demanded.

“It is called kichri, _sahib_ ,” she told the boots. “Soft rice porridge, very good for mother and baby.”

The scolding that she expected never came. Instead he moved over to Élodie’s chair. He ran his fingertips through her loose, dark hair, then pressed his palm to her forehead far more gently than Radha had anticipated. Perhaps his sternness was reserved only for the servants, like most other European masters. Élodie’s eyes fell closed under his touch, and she gripped the arms of her chair as if struck by dizziness. Radha could only silently pray that she had not become sick from overeating.

“She did not vomit?” the master asked, his tone almost thoughtful.

“No, _sahib_.” She finally dared to raise her head and look at his face. The suspicion was not fully gone from his expression, but the deep furrow of his brow had relaxed as he gazed down at his wife.

“Then she may eat it whenever she likes. But -” he looked pointedly at Radha, his tone short and almost surly, “tell the cook to learn how to make the food palatable. French do not need rice porridge.”

“Yes, _sahib._ ” Radha bowed again. She expected him to leave now that his orders had been dished out, but still he did not move. The air in the apartment had become uncomfortably still, the little boy having dropped the fan in order to clasp his hands humbly behind his back.

“Tell me,” the master said, gesturing vaguely at the right side of Radha’s face, “is that a disease?”

“No, _sahib_.” She almost choked on the words. Her right cheek seemed to burn more than the rest of her face. “Born with it, _sahib_.”

“Good. You may continue to attend my wife’s needs. And you –“ he jabbed his index finger at the little boy, “keep fanning, or I’ll hire someone else to do it.”

When the little boy did not react, Radha cuffed him gently. 

“Pick up the fan!” she muttered, before offering a bow of apology to the master. “May I fetch _sahib_ refreshments?” 

She stepped forward to let the child scramble for his fan without the master’s bright eyes watching his every move.

“A jug of iced water and two glasses,” he said without looking at her. He moved to the balcony, saying something to Élodie over his shoulder as Radha stepped forward, head still bowed, to remove the lap tray. She dared to glance upwards as she did so, and she found Élodie’s eyes already trained on her. Clearly her dizzy spell had passed quickly.

“Élodie,” she whispered almost inaudibly. “Please _,_ Radha.”

Radha looked at the master’s back, silhouetted against the blue mountains, then nodded quickly. The smile that flashed across Élodie’s face was brief, but it rivalled the September sunshine in its brightness.

 _Élodie_ – Radha turned the foreign name over and over in her mind as she bore the laden tray back to the kitchens. She had no other experience of European mistresses, but already she was sure that Ganga had never served one like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While making sure my spellings in this chapter were right, I learnt that apparently everyone else spells 'kichri' as 'khichdi'. It sounds almost the same because of the tipped 'r', but it still threw me off!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terms of note in this chapter:
> 
> dahl - literally dried split lentils, in this case a sauce made with boiled lentils and spices, eaten with rice or roti  
> dupatta - a shawl-like scarf, an essential part of female dress in India  
> Ramayana - an ancient Sanskrit epic about Rama, a prince who was the seventh avatar of the major Hindu deity Vishnu. The Ramayana tells the story of Rama's quest to save his beloved wife Sita from the clutches of the demon Ravana.

It was the servants’ dinner hour when Radha first let the name “Élodie” pass her lips in front of her elder sister. The low-ceilinged servants’ hall was noisy with chatter, and the rest of the staff were focused on finishing their food and exchanging a little gossip before their brief rest was finished, but Ganga’s keen ears did not miss the slip.

“I am starting to think you want to be dismissed!” she hissed, her tone accusing. “Why do you insist on being so familiar with them?”

“I am not the one insisting! She asked me to call her by her name!”

“I would not care if she had paid you for it.” Ganga scooped some dahl with a piece of roti bread and chewed it viciously, as if it had been the one to incite Radha’s shameful behaviour. “Every servant should know her place, and those who forget are always punished.”

“You don’t understand!” Underneath Radha’s prickle of shame, a sense of desperation was mounting. “I think she is very lonely, _didi_. Nobody speaks to her, nobody even understands what she says, except her husband. If I can make her feel better by something as simple as calling her –“

“You be quiet,” Ganga snapped. “Forget about what _sahib_ would do if he caught you, what would Mr Govind-ji say? He would dismiss you on the spot!”

“Did you say something?”

Somehow Ganga’s voice had carried. From his seat at the very end of the table, Mr Govind-ji craned his neck to look at the two girls.

“Nothing, sir,” said Radha quickly.

“I know my name when it is said.” The butler fixed her with a searing stare. “Tell me what you were saying this moment.”

The other conversations around the table had fallen silent. Underneath the table, Ganga gripped Radha’s forearm, and they exchanged the briefest of glances. Radha saw the panic in her elder sister’s eyes, no matter how well she was able to mask it.

“Only –“ Radha fumbled for something that would not earn her or her sister a reprimand or a thrashing, “only that I would like to learn French, Mr Govind-ji sir, and Ganga told me that I should ask you, as you are very much an expert in European customs.”

There was a beat of silence. Ganga’s hold tightened, and Radha stiffened so as not to react to the pain that lanced up her arm. Then, after a moment so long that the tension became almost unbearable, Mr Govind-ji smiled, his large moustache seeming to expand.

“Well,” he said, his affable tone drawing sighs of relief from both sisters, “that was the right advice. I myself have mastered both English and French, and I can tell you, there is only one way to do it. Self-disciplined study, girls. With self-discipline, the only thing you need is a grammar book. I bought such a book from Bukhari, do you know his shop?”

Both girls nodded, more to facilitate his continuing speech than because they were particularly familiar with the shop. It was a handsome bookshop, Radha knew, but she had never been inside. All she knew was that it was owned by Parsees, who traced their lineage back to a group of Persians who had escaped the Muslim conquest of their homeland. They kept to themselves, even though they had, by all accounts, settled in Gujarat more than a thousand years previously. The Bukhari family were one of the many who had migrated to Simla to provide services to the newly-arrived Europeans, and Radha guessed that Mr Bukhari himself was highly educated. He did not only own a bookshop, but his business was frequented daily by European men and women alike, which proved that he had their respect – perhaps even their admiration.

“The desire to study is very admirable,” Mr Govind-ji was saying, his smile waning slightly. He pointed a paternalistic finger at Radha. “But you will have to save it for another situation. _Sahib_ has instructed me that no servants should speak French in this house, especially not those who wait on _memsahib_.”

As the only member of staff who did not scoop his food with roti bread, he picked up a spoon to take more dahl from the serving dish.

“It is quite understandable. She wants peace and quiet, and she must certainly not be disturbed by the chatter of servants.”

“Thank you very much for your advice, sir,” Ganga said, finally letting her hand slip from Radha’s arm. The rest of the servants returned to their meals, satisfied that nobody would be berated for the time being, but Radha had lost her appetite completely. An uncomfortable feeling was mounting in her stomach. It was more than disbelief; it was almost like anger. Mr Govind-ji was trying to feed her a lie, just like everyone else.

“It is not true,” she muttered to Ganga, bowing her head so that only her sister could hear her mutinous tone. “It cannot be true. I know that _memsahib_ does not want to be left in silence, she was addressing me yesterday, and trying to teach me French! Why would she do that, if what _sahib_ said is true?”

Ganga did not answer, but even if she had tried to argue on behalf of the master, Radha’s mind would not have been changed.

“I will go to that shop on Sunday.”

Ganga stared at her in abject disbelief.

“I am going to buy a French grammar, and then we will see whether _memsahib_ truly wants silent, ignorant servants.”

“She disregards all advice, all rules,” Ganga murmured, glancing heavenwards. “Why did God give me a stupid sister?”

* * *

In a matter of days, it became a habit for Élodie to eat a bowl of kichri every afternoon. Radha was only too happy to give it to her, enthused by her mistress’ clear enjoyment of the simple food, and by the fact that her skin seemed to be losing its deathly pallor. They were enabled by an indulgent Azad, who had been much flattered by Radha’s effusive description of the _memsahib_ ’s enjoyment of his humble dish. Every day, after Élodie sent back the usual heavy French lunch with her apologies, Radha would bring her a bowl of kichri and a pot of ginger tea.

“Your kichri, Élodie _memsahib_ ,” she said in her carefully-rehearsed French, after scanning the apartment for anyone who might punish her for the infraction. Élodie was seated at the table, rather than in her usual easy chair, and already this gave the impression that she had regained some of her strength. She was dressed in a fine cotton gown, though one would have been forgiven for assuming that it was of much poorer quality, given its dusty grey colour, and that morning Radha had combed and pinned her hair properly for the first time since her arrival in Simla. She wore no ornaments – Radha wondered if Élodie had some aversion to jewels, or if it were perhaps another of the master’s strange rules. In any case, she did not need them. 

Radha placed the bowl carefully to Élodie’s left, carefully avoiding the square board that sat before her mistress. It was a game with many small pieces, and although it looked somewhat familiar, she could not immediately place it. Élodie had been completely absorbed when Radha had entered, but now she looked up, smiling as warmly as if Radha had rendered her a far greater service than bringing her an afternoon snack.

“Tea… with ginger?” Radha knew that her French sounds were not quite right, but she was proud that her memory served her well enough to allow this small channel of communication, and Elodie did not seem to mind in the least.

“Very good! Your French is very good, Radha.” She spoke with no trace of flattery, and it bolstered Radha’s confidence. Even if it were banned, she decided then and there that she would master the French language.

As she poured the tea, she watched as Élodie moved one of the black pieces to another square of the board. She then rotated the board to survey the arrangement of miniature figures from the view of her imaginary opponent. She made another move, this time with a white piece. This move completed, she pushed the board to one side and began to eat.

“You are playing... chess?” Radha did not know the name of the game in French, but she had recognised the method of play. She had seen old men on the street playing it since her childhood, but had had no idea that Europeans, too, played the ancient game. 

“You can play _?_ ” 

As usual, Radha interpreted the question mostly from Élodie’s facial expression, and she was a little ashamed when she had to shake her head, not wanting to extinguish the hope that she saw there.

“I cannot play.”

Élodie’s shoulders sank almost imperceptibly, but she nodded, still smiling. As she ate, Radha watched how the afternoon sun shone on the dark curls at her neck, making visible the ribbons of lighter brown that shot through the carefully arranged coils that Ganga had taught her to form. She was snapped from her reverie when one of Élodie’s hands shot to her side, her face contorting briefly.

“ _Memsahib_?”

“It’s nothing.” Elodie’s voice was breathy, but her face was calm again, and she withdrew her hand from her side. Before Radha could probe for details, Elodie gestured to the chair on the opposite side of the table - the seat where her opponent should have sat.

“Please?”

It was not easy to ignore Ganga’s voice in the back of her head telling her not to even think about taking such a relaxed position in front of her employer, especially on a chair upon which the master and mistress themselves might sit. With a little effort on Radha’s part, however, she was able to ignore the imaginary scolding and take the seat. It was very plush, and it took more than a modicum of self-control for her to simply rest her hands in her lap, rather than run her palms back and forth over the deep red velvet. 

Despite the steam rising thickly from her bowl of kichri, Elodie’s face remained pale as she ate, and her posture was stiff. Radha expected her to double over in pain at any moment. She cleared her throat quietly.

“Baby is how many months?” 

She had to ask the question in English, and as always, Elodie only looked at her searchingly. After a moment of awkward silence, Radha cast off all embarrassment, pressed her hands to her own stomach to mime holding a large belly, then held up both hands.

“Six months? Seven? Eight?” She held up fingers corresponding to each number she said, hoping that this rudimentary form of acting would communicate to Élodie the purpose of her question. Pains at eight months were less worrying than pains at six, and she could only hope that her mistress did not consider the question impertinent.

In reply, Élodie held up both hands. The fingers of her right hand were fully splayed, but only the thumb and first finger were lifted on her left. “ _Sept mois_.”

“Do you have many pains?”

Élodie shook her head, but the response did not quieten Radha’s worry – it was a blank, confused movement, her dark eyebrows furrowed. Élodie did not understand her question, and so Radha would not receive its crucial answer. She clenched her teeth, wishing she could simply read her mistress’ mind. Though it was not her own fault that she did not understand French, how could she truly fulfil her duty to Élodie if they did not understand each other? If she did not buy that French grammar, she was as good as leaving Élodie to fend for herself.

After scraping her bowl clean, Élodie began to disassemble her game of chess. Radha guessed that the two neat rows on each side of the board were the pieces’ starting positions, and watched with interest as Élodie found a piece of paper and a short pencil – a way of keeping score, perhaps, in the European version of the game? But then Elodie pushed the paper across the table towards Radha, and Radha realised that her guess had been wrong. On the page were quick sketches of each of the game’s six pieces, with arrows of different lengths protruding at varying angles from their carefully outlined bodies.

“Look.” Élodie picked up the smallest piece on the board, the first that she had put to paper. “ _Le pion_.”

The single arrow that extended from the sketch of this piece was the shortest of all, and Radha assumed that to mean that it was the weakest piece in the game. There was something triumphant in Élodie’s expression, however, as she moved it two spaces forward.

* * *

On Sunday afternoon, Radha informed her sister that she would be running a short errand before joining her for the visit to their family home.

“Just make sure you get there by two o’clock,” Ganga said, barely looking at her as she wrapped her white dupatta around her shoulders. “Lakshmi wants all her sisters to celebrate her birthday, even the ones who are becoming so important that they want to learn foreign languages.”

With that blessing, Radha went on her way.

Bukhari Bookshop and Stationer’s was darker inside than she had expected, but refreshingly cool. Books in European languages, mostly English, formed neat lines in the racks. The only other living creature in the shop was the figure sitting behind the counter. His head was bent over something - most likely a book, Radha thought. All she could make out was a round-topped hat, perched atop a mop of dark hair.

“Mr Bukhari?” she asked. When the figure looked up, she realised with a touch of disappointment that this could not be the shop owner of whom Mr Govind-ji had spoken so highly.

“I am indeed a Bukhari,” the boy said, grinning at her and displaying a set of very large front teeth. He stepped out from behind the counter and made a little bow. “Master Farzin Bukhari, at your service, ma’am.”

“You mustn’t call me ma’am,” Radha said, irritated by what she perceived to be his mocking.

“Why not? You are my customer! And my mother would not have left me in charge if she did not trust that I could aid any customer just as well as she could.” Master Bukhari made another little bow, this one a little more theatrical. “Please, allow me to assist.”

Now that he was standing upright, he was rather taller than Radha had expected him to be. He wore the customary white tunic and trousers of the Parsee people, and Radha noted with interest that although he was a little fairer than her, his hair was the blackest she had ever seen. The telltale smoothness of his face also convinced her that he could be no older than fifteen years old, perhaps younger than she was herself.

“I wish to buy a French grammar,” she said finally. “I was told that I could find one here.”

“But of course!” He dashed behind the counter again, heaving a large catalogue out of a drawer. “English to French, or Hindustani to French?”

“Hindustani, please.”

“You can read, then?”

“Of course I can read!” Radha snapped. If he had been here, Mr Bukhari would not have asked such a silly question, she was sure. “Why would I try to learn French if I could not read in my own language?”

“Perhaps you wished to teach yourself both the Hindustani and Latin alphabets simultaneously? That would be most impressive.” 

Farzin Bukhari grinned again, and Radha did not like that she was not sure whether he was laughing at her expense or not. Before she could scold him (for she was now almost sure that he was younger than her), he had bowed his head over the catalogue.

“We do sell the Hindustani-French grammar, ma’am,” he said, his tone respectful and business-like once more, “but I am afraid we do not have a copy in the shop at this time.”

“Will I have to order a copy?” Radha’s confidence in her mission began to wane. Ordering a book would be more expensive than simply purchasing it, and she had only a meagre amount of money as it was.

“Ah, good news, ma’am! A shipment will arrive from Pondicherry within a week. I can deliver it to you as soon as it arrives.”

“It will cost extra?” 

“Certainly not.” He flashed her that same boyish smile. It was a genuine smile, not the smile of a vendor desperate to make a sale. “Delivery service is included in the price of the book, ma’am.”

“Then I would like to buy it.” 

Radha felt in her pocket for her coin-purse while Farzin Bukhari made a note of the transaction in the shop’s ledger.

“May I have your name, ma’am?”

“Miss Radha Batra,” she told him. “So you can stop calling me ma’am. I am not a married woman.”

“Then I will call you Radha, and you will call me Farzin. Would you like to pay now?”

When he told her the price, she knew without checking her purse that she did not have enough.

“I was wondering,” she said, drawing in a deep breath so that she might appear calm and collected, ““if I might pay for the book in instalments?”

He tilted his head slightly as he looked up at her, brushing away the thick sheaf of black hair that fell over his forehead.

“My father does not usually offer that form of payment.” His eyes lit up almost mischievously. “But he is in Calcutta.”

Before she could say anything more, he had pulled a piece of paper from somewhere and begun to scribble. As she leant over the counter to peer at his writing, her dupatta came loose from over her left shoulder and flopped in his face, startling them both. She scrambled to pull it back, her face hot with embarrassment, but he only chuckled.

“Are these terms agreeable to you?”

He handed her a contract stating that she could pay in as many instalments as she liked, taking as much time as she needed, and that there would be an interest rate of zero percent on the cost of the book.

“Very generous terms,” she said, printing her name in the correct place, trying to form her letters more neatly than his. “Would your father approve of them?”

“He would consider it bad business practice, I am sure.” He took the contract back, folded it, and tucked it into the pocket of his tunic. “But I am still learning the ways of the industry, am I not?”

His conspiratorial smile was practically begging for a co-conspirator, and she indulged the silent request.

“So, why are you learning French?” he asked, leaning back as much as he could on his stool, playing the languid shopkeeper. “Don’t tell me! Your employer is French, is that right?”

When she nodded, he pumped his fist with such triumph that she could not help but laugh.

“That was hardly a difficult thing to guess!” she told him.

“You think that was easy to work out? What if I said that you work for… the wealthy French baron who has taken Shambhala House for the winter? Or – no, his wife!”

Radha could only gape at him, and Farzin looked very smug indeed.

“You are lady’s maid to the French baroness. Am I right?”

“How did you know that?"

“Parsees know everything,” he said, voice and expression suddenly very serious. “Or at least, they learn everything from the white ladies who gossip in their shops. I know everything about Baron Auclair and his little wife – is it true, she is a child?”

“Of course not!” Radha felt a flash of indignation. She would willingly admit that she did not care about the baron’s reputation – well, she would admit it to someone she trusted – but Élodie had done nothing to deserve malicious gossip. “She is – well, I don’t know exactly how old she is, but she is at least as old as I am. She is young, but not a child.”

Farzin nodded, spinning his pencil between his fingers. “You are right. Still, the English ladies think it very strange that your mistress never comes to any of their social functions.”

“She is expecting a child very soon, she could not dance at a function even if she wanted to.”

“You are loyal to your mistress! Is she very kind?”

Radha nodded. “She is kind, even though she does not understand me, and I do not understand her. This is why I want to learn French.”

“Then it is a shame that your grammar will not arrive until next week! If you like, I could write you a list of French vocabulary, so that you can study from that in the meantime?”

“ _You_ speak French?” Radha had not meant her tone to sound so accusatory, but it did seem that this boy had won a lottery a few too many times. The son of a businessman who was clever, generous, and kind all at once? It was hardly fair, especially considering that the Parsees had only begun to rise through the ranks of society when the East India Company had arrived.

“A very little bit! A beautiful French copy of the Ramayana came into the shop, and I simply had to look at it.” His expression melted into something like ecstasy. “Such a beautiful binding, and the illustrations are marvellous. We are very fortunate that some French person is interested enough in the story of Lord Rama to create such a book.”

“I thought you were a Parsee?” Radha was nonplussed at his exaltation of a book that he should have had no interest in reading in the first place. “You have your own religion, what do you care for Lord Rama?”

“I am a Zoroastrian, yes, but my family is from Gujarat,” he pointed out. “I know the stories of Lord Rama just as much as any Hindu. I’m sure you have never thought about it, but it is very hard to ignore all the lights on Diwali, even if our New Year does not take place until the spring.”

It was true: Radha had never thought about that.

“I should leave,” she said, glancing at the wall clock. “My family expects me at home. Thank you,” she added, a little awkwardly, “for all your help. I appreciate it very much. Please have the grammar delivered to Shambhala House’s servant’s entrance as soon as is convenient.”

“No problem at all.” He rose, offering her his theatrical little bow one more time.

“And I will pay the book’s full price as soon as I can,” she said quickly, “so that your father will not be angry with you for using his money.”

“Oh, you mustn’t worry about that! I have recorded the book as paid for.”

“But how - ”

“I’ll put some money into the box myself,” he said, so nonchalant and cheerful that Radha could only gape. “Do come again soon!”

“Thank you,” she said faintly. “Goodbye, Farzin.”

She had grown so used to the cool interior of the shop that the late August sun seemed to burn on her face once she was out in the street again. She brushed a few loose hairs back from her forehead, then pressed a hand over her eyes, wondering if everything that had just happened had been an illusion. Farzin Bukhari, a complete stranger, had not only bought the French grammar for her, but had agreed to let her pay for it whenever she was able, and was happy to conceal the whole arrangement from his father. She could have convinced herself it was a strange dream, had the extra weight in her coin purse not been as real as the dirt road beneath her feet. 

She set off for the Lower Bazaar at a determined pace. She would be home rather later than she had hoped, but she had significantly more money on her person than previously anticipated. Thanks to Farzin’s generous contract, she would be able to buy her little sister something sweet.


	4. Chapter 4

Three days later, Radha was helping to clear away the dishes at the end of the servants’ dinner hour when Rahul, one of the fan boys, appeared at her elbow.

“There’s a delivery at the kitchen door for you, _didi_.” 

“Thank you!” She ushered him away, wiping her hands on her sari and glancing around. Neither Mr Govind-ji nor Ganga were in the immediate vicinity.

Farzin was leaning against the whitewashed wall outside, his hands thrust deeply into the pockets of his black suit. There was a small round hat perched on the top of his jet-black hair, glimmering with gold embroidery.

“The grammar has already arrived?” Radha could barely contain her excitement, pulling the door almost closed behind her to block the sound of their conversation from anyone who might walk past on the way to the scullery. Farzin straightened up, withdrawing his hands from his pockets, and Radha’s heart sank a little when she saw them both empty. Perhaps it was in an inside pocket, she told herself, trying not to feel dismayed.

“Unfortunately not, but –“ He pulled a folded paper from his jacket pocket, offering it to her with a smile that was not so much joyful as reassuring – as if she were a small child that he were trying to cajole into a good mood. “I brought you this, to keep your brain working until the book arrives.”

Only when she unfolded the paper did she understand what he meant. It was a large page, probably torn from the middle of an exercise book. Columns and rows had been drawn in pencil, and in every box, there was a Hindustani word, then a word in French, and then a spelling of the word in the Hindustani script, to explain exactly how it would be pronounced.

“I searched all the French books that we had in the house, even my elder brother’s,” he told her, “and I found the most common words. This will not teach you the grammar, really, but simple vocabulary will help you talk to your mistress a little more, will it not?”

“How long did this take you?” Radha turned over the page to find yet more boxes of neatly arranged French words.

“Not that long.” Farzin waved his hand airily, but she had difficulty believing him.

“How much should I pay for it?"

Farzin gave her an incredulous smile and began to shake his head, but Radha was determined.

“I should at least give you a few _annas_ for it! I have not even begun to pay for the grammar -” 

“No one should have to pay for education.”

“I am not a charity child!” Her temper flared slightly, even though she knew he did not mean to insult her. “I have my own money. I will not be treated as a charity case.”

Farzin looked at her closely. In the dim light of Bukhari’s Bookshop and Stationer’s, Radha had not noticed that his eyes were a rather light shade of brown.

“If you would like me to charge you for the paper, I can do that,” he finally said, his mouth twitching into an amiable smile. “Is two _annas_ extortionate enough for you?”

“Yes.”

Two _annas_ was in fact the sum total of money she had tucked into her blouse, but she pressed the coins into his hand with pride. The precious page took their place, folded carefully along its original lines so as not to wear out the paper unnecessarily.

Farzin doffed his little round hat in a chivalric display as he turned to leave. Radha supposed he was expected back at the shop, and God knew that someone would come looking for her at any moment. She glanced over her shoulder – the door into the kitchens was slightly ajar, but she was aware that she would not know if someone were standing very still behind it, listening to every word they said. She felt the sudden urge to know something about the Bukhari family.

“Does your family run a charity school?”

“What do you mean?” Farzin paused halfway into another bow – Radha wondered, with a mix of amusement and irritation, whether he did that to everyone.

“You clearly have opinions about the price of education. I suppose your family gives money to a school for orphans or beggar children?”

She had already guessed the answer, of course - Farzin’s father was known in Simla as a wealthy man, and he showed his wealth by giving generously to charitable institutions. Even so, she wanted to hear it from someone who knew what it was like to have enough money to support strangers.

“Oh!” Farzin nodded vigorously. “My father does give money to such an organisation. An orphanage for Parsi children in Ahmedabad, close to where he grew up. When I go into the business, I will donate myself, though I have to say, I would prefer to found a school of my own.”

“You are very fortunate,” Radha said, her tone a little colder than she knew was fair. If Farzin noticed her change in demeanour, he did not acknowledge it.

“I do not think I will succeed in my dream, though,” he continued, combing his hair back with his fingers and repositioning his hat.

“Why not?”

“I am not nearly clever enough to be a teacher, much less a headmaster. I would need someone to help me on that front.”

He flashed her a grin Radha felt she ought to understand, but did not. Perhaps she ought to seek out a Parsi grammar if she were to be friendly with this boy.

“But I must leave now. My mother will be expecting me, and I’m sure your mistress will be wanting you. You might surprise her by greeting her in French!”

“I will, thank you.” 

The envy that had curdled in the pit of her stomach was dissipating slightly - Farzin was a decent boy, Radha had to admit. He raised his hand in a quick wave, looking back at her over his shoulder as he hurried away, and she was able to smile as she waved back. Once he was out of sight, she slipped back through the kitchen door, drawing her new sheet of vocabulary out of her blouse. There were so many words – at least fifty, each spelled out so that she could practise without Élodie’s help! She did not believe that Farzin would not make a good teacher; he knew what a dedicated student needed.

“ _Memsahib_ needs you, _didi_.” Radha jumped. Rahul was standing in the doorway, hands behind his back. His expression was impassive, as were those of all good fan boys, but Radha was gripped by the terrible certainty that he had been there for a long time.

“Tell her I am coming now.” 

Only once he had run off did she look down at her page again. She allowed herself one more long moment to admire the French words, wishing she could commit them to memory even though she could barely read them. Then, after refolding the page as carefully as she could, she made for the stairs.

* * *

“Are we safe here, Radha?”

Radha looked up from her sewing, glancing instinctively over her shoulder. Aside from the two of them, and the fan boy in his position in the corner of the room, Élodie’s apartments were empty. Only the quiet swish of the fan and the click of Élodie’s knitting needles broke the silence. There was no danger of repercussions for speaking together. She nodded quickly.

“The baron will only return for dinner.”

“I meant in India,” Élodie said quietly. Radha flushed, mortified at her misunderstanding, but Élodie did not seem to be laughing at her. Her mouth merely twitched, tongue darting out to wet her lower lip. She had put her knitting down in her lap and twisted her hands together. “Eugene told me there is a war here.”

“Oh.” Radha paused, then tilted her head reassuringly. “It is not really a war. Not in Simla.”

The fighting had started in Ambala, not one hundred miles from where they were, but she decided not to mention that to her poor, nervous mistress. Any skirmishes between the Indians and the East India Company men would never affect her, in any case.

“The Indians are fighting against the East India Company?” Élodie pronounced the name of that great organisation in heavily accented English, so much that Radha would not have understood them if she had not known what Élodie meant to say. “They are rebelling?”

“Yes, but mostly in New Delhi, now. The soldiers do not fight the East India Company here in the mountains.”

The East India Company were good to them here in Simla, Radha’s father had told her, and in any case, no motley band of Indian soldiers could overthrow the entire East India Company. England was a very small country, but she seemed to have an endless supply of sons to fight for her. Eugene and Elodie had appeared not to have the faintest idea of the fighting, and Radha wondered yet again why Elodie had been brought to Simla in the first place. Why had Eugene brought her, only to frighten her with tales about being in danger? 

“Your family is safe, then?”

“Yes, of course!” Radha was touched that Élodie even thought to consider how her family might be affected by the fighting - of course she didn’t know that the hill towns, British enclaves that they were, had seen almost no violence at all. What European _memsahib_ cared about her servant’s family? Radha shifted her stool a little closer to Élodie, then drew the page of French out of her blouse and flattened it across her knees.

“Look! I am learning French.”

“What is that?” Élodie leant forward, her knitting forgotten, and Radha tilted the page so that she could read the words. The journey on Élodie’s face - crinkled brows to wide-eyed surprise and then to a joyous smile - made Radha’s heart quicken. Soon they would be able to converse.

“My -” she hunted for the word, then scanned Farzin’s neat phonetic rendering of the word to make sure she was saying it properly, “ _father_ \- is a tailor.”

The word tailor was, unfortunately, not on the sheet, so Radha made do with a pantomime of sewing. 

“Clothes.”

Élodie nodded eagerly, still leaning forward. Her posture was erect and her eyes were very bright.

“Your father is a good man?”

Radha needed only to scan the page to make certain that she understood what Élodie had said, and it was with triumph that she nodded.

“Very good. He is kind.”

Élodie made to rise, but Radha was faster; as soon as she noticed Élodie bracing herself to stand, she leapt up, raising her hands in a gesture almost like chastisement.

“What do you need?”

“My father -” Élodie gestured to her dressing table, allowing herself to sink back into her easy chair. “His portrait.”

The miniature painting lived among Élodie’s meagre collection of beautifying objects, and although Radha had passed the miniature painting every day, she had never had the words to enquire about it. Now she made to pick up the frame, but paused.

“May I?”

“Of course.”

Élodie patted the stool beside her, and Radha brought the miniature with her as she took the seat, carrying it in both hands as though it were a holy idol. The man in the portrait was classically European in appearance, his colouring not being as dark as Élodie’s. His clothes were very fine, and he sported a large moustache. The miniaturist had rendered his features impressively clearly - blue eyes, a straight, even nose, and a strong jaw. He did not resemble his daughter much, though upon closer inspection, Radha noticed that their noses were almost identical.

“My papa,” Élodie said, her face softening as she looked at the painting. Radha did not need the list of French words to understand that.

“I also say ‘papa’!” It sounded quite different, but the two words were close enough that in that moment, Radha could almost believe she and Élodie spoke the same language. “Your papa is in France?”

Élodie shook her head, saying something so softly that Radha did not catch it. After a long moment, Elodie rested her finger underneath a single word on the page of French. _Dead._

“Forgive me,” Radha said quickly, ashamed that she had put Élodie in the position to speak of something that must have been painful. After all, Radha could have guessed at that answer - what wealthy man like Élodie’s father would send his daughter across the world for no good reason, in such a delicate condition? He would at least have consulted Eugene about it. Radha offered her the miniature, and Élodie took it with a silent nod.

“My mother too,” Elodie said, half-addressing the painting. “When I was small.”

So she was all alone in a strange land, with no mother to aid her in this most important time of a woman’s life. And the longer she spent in Élodie’s presence, the more Radha began to believe that Elodie was not yet a woman at all.

“You have brothers or sisters, Radha?”

“Three sisters, two brothers. Ganga is the eldest, the others are small.”

“Ganga is your sister?” Élodie stared at her, and embarrassment stabbed in Radha’s stomach. Her mistress had clearly not expected the beautiful, fair housemaid to be related to the plain one. Radha only nodded quickly.

“You have brothers?” 

She asked in hope, rather than because she truly believed that Élodie had a brother. Elder or younger, it would not matter - a brother would protect Elodie at this most fragile time of her life. Radha wished a good brother for her mistress.

Élodie’s gaze fell to her lap, and her grip tightened on the frame of her father’s portrait. 

“I have no brother.”

Her voice was low and thick, and Radha realised with horror that she had brought her mistress to tears, or close enough. _Foolish girl_ , she scolded herself, hearing Ganga's voice in her ears. _You pried into her business and you have upset her._ But Élodie soon looked up, and though her eyes were a little red, she smiled faintly and pressed her hand over Radha’s.

“I was alone in France. Now, with you here, I am not alone anymore.”

“You are never alone,” Radha said gently, gesturing to the swell beneath Élodie’s gown. “You have baby. He is always with you.”

After a pause, Élodie gave a half-nod. "You are right."

She barely glanced at her stomach as she spoke, and Radha wondered, not for the first time, if Élodie did not understand that she was to become a mother before the year ended. Thinking about the baby reminded her, most regrettably, of its father. How had the marriage to Eugene even come about, if Élodie was an orphan with no family to speak of? Surely a guardian would have been appointed to allow the marriage? Or, Radha wondered, was she herself merely too ignorant of the ways of Europeans?

“Come,” Élodie’s voice broke through her cloud of thoughts, “tell me some more of these words.”

She had leant very close to look over her shoulder at the page, and Radha caught the scent of honey water that wafted ever so faintly from Élodie’s hair. It made her stomach flip in a manner that was both strange and pleasant. She straightened her shoulders, resolving that she should speak the best French that Élodie had ever heard. 

* * *

After she had helped Élodie dress for bed, Radha set her small lamp on the floor of the tiny room she shared with Ganga and spread the sheet of French words on her pillow. She was lying on her stomach studying them when Ganga entered the room.

“What are you reading?”

“French,” Radha murmured, not raising her eyes. She was trying to commit the foreign letters to memory, and the process did not need to be disturbed by a glare or roll of the eyes from Ganga.

“I cannot believe you would rather study than sleep.” Ganga’s tone was softer than Radha had expected. “You are certainly not lazy.”

Radha looked up, unsure of how to react to such a forgiving answer. Ganga was turned away slightly from her, just enough that the small lamp could not illuminate her face. Her shadow danced on the wall as she lifted her arms to unwrap her dupatta.

“You are not lazy either, _didi_. You could study, if you wanted to.”

“Why?” Ganga shook her head, untying the ribbon that held her plait in place. “By learning all those new things, I would only feel very poor indeed. I could never afford to go to France, or even buy a French book. Hindustani is enough.”

“But you would be able to understand what the _sahib_ and _memsahib_ say –“

“Not that again.” Ganga turned to fix her with a hard stare, her eyes strangely bright in the dim light. “The _sahib_ expressly forbade us from learning French for that reason. Don’t try to drag me into your nonsense.”

With that, she turned her attention to her hair. Out of its tight plait, the full mass of black hair fell almost to her waist. She reached for the hairbrush, drawing her hair over her left shoulder, and when the neckline of her blouse shifted downwards, Radha noticed a mark at the place when her neck met her collarbone. It was small and dark red, like a crushed kidney bean.

“What’s that?” Radha sat up. Perhaps it had merely been a shadow, but even after she rubbed her eyes, it was still there. In fact, she could even see what she thought was a second mark, the same size and colour, two inches further down. “On your neck?”

The hairbrush froze mid-comb, and Ganga’s palm slapped over the marks. “Nothing.”

“There was something there! Like a spider bite, or a –“

“I said it’s nothing.” Ganga began to drag the brush through her hair, her eyes fixed on the wall, her left palm still cupping her neck. “Don’t ask me again.”

“But –“

“Shut up!” Ganga rounded on her, and although Radha had seen her sister’s fury many times, she had never known it to bring tears to her eyes. “You need to learn how to mind your own business!”

“I just want to help –“ were the only words Radha managed to say before Ganga cut her off with a laugh that was half-disbelieving, half-derisive.

“Learn how to help yourself first! I know all about your secret meeting with the Bukhari boy. Do you think that was a good thing to do? Do you think Father would see it that way?”

“There was no secret meeting!” Radha’s anger flared, and she clambered to her feet, all thoughts of teaching Ganga French forgotten. How dare Ganga try to pin a lie on her, when she was clearly telling a lie herself? “He only brought me the French pages!”

“You know nothing about how the world works.” Ganga tossed the hairbrush at the washstand. It hit the corner with a sharp sound and fell to the floor, but she did not stoop to pick it up.

“That’s not my fault, you’re the eldest,” Radha snapped. “If you did your duty, maybe I would know more.”

Ganga’s eyes widened, and she stared at Radha with such astonishment that for a brief moment, Radha regretted her words. Before she could think of apologising, however, Ganga’s hand shot out and delivered her a smack so hard that she saw white. By the time her vision had cleared, Ganga was curled up on her side of the cot with her back to Radha. She had pulled her blanket over her head, but Radha could still see how her shoulders trembled. _Serves you right_ , she couldn’t help thinking, lying down beside her and turning so that their backs barely touched. _Now I’ll have a mark on the left side too, and you’ll still be the more beautiful one, even if something did happen to your neck_.

The sting to Radha’s pride died down as the night wore on, but Ganga’s sobs did not. It was easier to lie down beside a sister who had hurt you, Radha realised, than to have that sister flinch away when you tried to touch her shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally found my motivation for this fic again! Coming up next: Eugene gets suspicious, a ball in town, and Radha and Ganga live parallel lives.
> 
> Any feedback at all would be highly appreciated, or even questions - as some people already know, these characters have escaped the confines of the fic and have long futures ahead of them.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a LOT of internet trawling I did manage to find an 1857 map of India with Simla on it, but I haven't managed to actually upload it onto this chapter. You can find the map here: https://imgur.com/a/1ddSNSY  
> Or if you know what I can do to get the image onto the chapter, any help would be much appreciated!  
> Enjoy the chapter, things are really starting to heat up...

A footman had served breakfast by the time Radha slipped silently into the dining room. Élodie was spreading a little butter onto a triangle of toast, her head bowed over her plate as if she, too, did not want to be seen. Across the table, Mr Govind-ji was standing to attention by the master’s side, the silver letter tray in one hand and an open letter in the other. Radha busied herself with neatening the arrangement of the dishes on the breakfast trolley, hoping neither Mr Govind-ji nor the _sahib_ would be too irritated when they saw that she and Ganga had swapped duties. If the job was done properly, they could have no objection, she assured herself.

“ – leaving for Calcutta the day after tomorrow,” Mr Govind-ji was saying, “and so must sadly decline your invitation.”

The _sahib_ muttered something in French, then waved his hand. “Next.”

“From Mrs Blythesea, sir, the wife of Captain Blythesea. She invites the baroness and yourself to a soiree at their bungalow next Friday evening, to celebrate the Captain’s safe return from Delhi.”

“Send our apologies, we cannot attend.” The _sahib_ barely looked up from his plate. “Next.”

Mr Govind-ji shuffled the letters, tearing open the next piece of correspondence. Radha watched his lips tighten as he scanned the page. “Mr. Broadhurst regrets to inform you, sir, that he and his family leave for Calcutta –“

“ _Putain_ _!_ ” Eugene slammed his fist on the table. The crockery rattled alarmingly, making every other person in the room startle. “Calcutta, everyone to Calcutta! How am I supposed to get anything done when they cannot sit still?”

“My deepest apologies, sir,” Mr Govind-ji said quickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “I cannot imagine the difficulties you are undergoing.”

“No, you cannot,” was the stony reply.

“But, if I may, I can offer some information that may ease your mind?”

“Only if it is useful.”

“These hill towns are peaceful places, _sahib_. We do not hold with the rebellion here in Simla. Soon the British will see that there is no danger here, and they will return.”

“So I must simply wait for the fools to see sense.” 

Eugene glanced across the table at Élodie, who was watching the interaction with anxious eyes - it did not matter that she did not understand what was being said. Radha could see the tight-jawed dissatisfaction on the _sahib_ ’s face, and she felt the urge to throw herself between husband and wife, to protect Élodie from that look.

“It’s nothing, my dear,” he said suddenly in French, the look melting into a fond smile. “Only a little trouble with my associates. Govind here says that they will return shortly, so there is no need to worry.”

Élodie tried to return the smile, obviously relieved, and Radha’s hackles lowered.

“I can offer some good news, sir,” Mr Govind-ji said. “Mr Broadhurst will in fact be attending the gathering at the Blythesea bungalow, and he hopes that some business can be concluded there.”

“Oh? Then we shall accept the Blythesea invitation. Anything else?”

“No, sir.” Mr Govind-ji bowed deeply, then backed away. He turned his back only when the _sahib_ had picked up his cutlery again, and that was when he saw Radha. His eyes widened, but after opening his mouth for less than a second, he closed it firmly and gestured to the breakfast trolley.

“Serve,” he hissed, almost inaudibly. She nodded, bowing as deeply as she could, and took up a tray of hot rolls.

“We have been invited to a party, my dear,” the _sahib_ was saying in French. His tone was jovial, even kindly, and Radha scolded herself once more for her foolishness. European men simply treated their staff badly, she had heard it often enough – it did not mean that they treated their wives just as badly.

“Me, as well?” Élodie stared at him as though he were playing some practical joke on her.

“Of course! It is time that this town met my beautiful wife.”

“But –“ She rested a hand on her belly, her expression uncertain, but Eugene shushed her lightly before she could voice any concern.

“I am sure things are done differently here. In any case,” he added, “they all appear to be leaving town.”

The time had come to test Radha’s belief that the _sahib_ would not care who served the breakfast as long as it was done properly, and she found that her heart was thumping. She approached the table, treading as lightly as a ghost, and offered the tray.

“Another roll, _sahib_?”

He looked up sharply, face twisting first with surprise, then disdain.

“Where is Ganga?”

“Please, _sahib_ , she was very ill this morning,” Radha said. She had not thought that the _sahib_ would know her sister’s name.

“Is she, indeed.”

As he spoke, he studied Radha from head to toe, as if she were some specimen of an animal he had never come across. It made her skin prickle with shame, and anger that she felt such shame. It was not her fault that his eyes lingered.

“Tell her that I do not pay her to be ill,” he said finally. “She can present herself for work in my study, or she can find another employer. Understand?”

“Yes, _sahib_ ,” she mumbled, not daring to look up, not because she was humbled by him, but because she was afraid that she would not be able to control her anger. Just as Eugene raised his hand to gesture her away, Élodie’s voice caught both of their attention.

“Is something wrong?”

She was looking at them, a faint crease between her eyebrows, her hands still resting protectively on the curve of her belly.

“Nothing, my dear,” said the _sahib_ , switching to French once more. “She says the housemaid is sick.” He sniffed derisively. “Lazy and disrespectful. Such a woman should understand the honour of working in a household like ours.”

Radha did not understand every word he said, but she understood enough, and she had to bite down hard on her tongue so as not to allow her face to reflect that.

“Actually, while you are here –“ he snapped his fingers, making Radha instinctively straighten her shoulders. “My wife and I will go into town this afternoon, and dine at the club tonight. You will have her dressed after lunch.” 

Barely waiting for her mumbled “yes, _sahib_ ”, he addressed Élodie in French.

“We will go into town after lunch.”

“I –“ Élodie’s breathing was a little heavier than usual, and feverish spots of colour had appeared on her cheekbones, standing out almost garishly against her pale skin. “I – I do not feel well, please, Eugene.”

“Then rest for the morning,” was his reply, patient but firm. “You need fresh air, and so does the child. It will be good for the both of you.”

In lieu of speaking, Élodie looked down at her lap.

“My wife is tired.” By speaking in English, the _sahib_ made it clear that he was addressing Radha, though he did not deign to look at her. She wished she could snap at him that she knew he was lying – she knew that Élodie felt ill and that he had brushed it off – but again, she forced her face into a blank expression. “She will rest this morning before our trip.”

“Yes, _sahib_ ,” Radha murmured, clasping her hands behind her back. That way, he would not see when they balled into fists.

* * *

That night, after hurried instruction from a distracted Ganga, Radha prepared to curl her mistress’ hair. Élodie had returned from the club looking almost sickly, her face almost ashen and her breathing heavy, and as soon as she entered the boudoir she sank down onto her bed. Radha could not bear to ask her to stand up again and sit at the dressing table to have her hair curled. Once she had helped Élodie out of her heavy brown gown and into a nightdress, she decided to dress Élodie’s hair where she sat.

“Water?” Radha looked to the washstand, remembering Ganga’s advice from their first night in the servant’s quarters. She would have to take a basin and add the precious honey water a few drops at a time to the water as she worked. But Élodie shook her head, leaning sideways against the dark wooden headboard, her eyes only half-open.

“No water? Just this?” Radha pressed her, holding up the bottle of the expensive liquid. Élodie might be too tired to care now, but that was not to say that she would not be upset the next morning that her supplies had been wasted by her ignorant maid.

“I have lots,” Élodie said simply. She did not look proud of the fact, as a wealthy wife might display her finery. Radha suspected that it was Eugene who had the taste for fine things. “Just the honey water is fine, Radha.”

Ganga’s instruction had been rigorous, and Radha worked her way around from Élodie’s left side, climbing onto the bed so that Elodie would not have to stand and readjust herself. She tried to work as quickly as possible, gritting her teeth in her desperation not to fumble and let a carefully gathered roll unravel. It did happen a few times, but if Elodie noticed it, she gave no impression that she did so. Her breathing was steadily returning to normal.

“How was town?” Radha asked over Élodie’s shoulder, kneeling on the mattress behind her to curl the back of her hair. “I hear there are many entertainments for European travellers.”

“I went to the most lovely bookshop,” was Élodie’s murmured reply. “And I bought a book of poetry - Fables of Hindustan, in French.”

“Hindustani poetry!” Radha could not help smiling, even though Élodie was facing away from her. “You are interested in such things?”

“Of course I am. India is a fascinating place, I feel I should read more about it.”

“And it was Bukhari’s shop? The Parsee bookseller?”

“Yes, I think so. Have you been there?”

“Only once.” Radha knew she had no need to be embarrassed, that Élodie did not consider her uneducated, but the words still came out as more of a confession. “But it is a very nice shop. I’ve never met Mr Bukhari himself, but his son is very kind. Very familiar, but a good boy.”

“His son?” Élodie turned her head slightly, and one of her coils of hair slipped out from between Radha’s fingers and unravelled to hang, gently curled, down her back. “You know him?”

“Not very well,” Radha said quickly, rolling up the treacherous lock once more. “But he is the one who wrote out all those French words for us, so that I could learn to speak to you.”

“They seem to be a very kind family. I hope to return to their shop soon.” 

Élodie’s shoulders were hunched, so much that she appeared from behind almost like an old crone. It was as though the travails of this one day were pulling her down with all the weight of eighty years.

“Simla town is a nice place, then?” Radha asked, her tone almost coaxing.

“Everyone stared at me, Radha.” There was a tremor in Élodie’s voice. “The other ladies, I saw them whispering when they saw me. And now this soiree on Friday… Eugene says I must go, but…”

Drawing her dark hair up into coils had revealed the nape of Élodie’s neck. It was very white, whiter than her face and arms had ever been. It reminded Radha of the colour of cold milk, and she had the sudden, strange urge to press her face to it, to see if it was warm.

“I will be there with you.” She gently pressed a hand to Élodie’s shoulder. “I will help you.”

“You are very kind, Radha.” Élodie’s voice was low, but it had taken on a new warmth, as if someone had finally stoked the embers of the fire in her chest. She turned to face Radha, her movements slow but decisive. In the dim, yellowish light of the lamps she was a strange vision, her white nightdress billowing over her large belly, gathering into ruffles at her neck and almost blending into the white of her neck and face. Her mouth had turned very pink, and her eyes were a liquid black, like steeped tea. 

Their eyes met. They stared at each other for a long moment, Élodie seeming about to say something, Radha tensed to jump and fetch whatever she desired. Then Élodie leant close, and touched her lips to Radha’s. It was almost not a kiss at all, the merest, lightest brush of the lips that lit Radha’s mouth alight with tingling. It was like an ache. She did not realise that her eyes were closed until she finally opened them and found Elodie watching her with an almost hunted expression.

“I am sorry,” Élodie whispered. “I should not have -”

“All is well, _memsahib_ \- Élodie.” 

Ignoring Ganga’s voice in her ears, Radha rested a hand on Élodie’s arm and squeezed lightly. She had seen how European ladies embraced each other, after all, and Farzin had told her that in France, men and women who were not family would kiss each other in greeting. Élodie was grateful to her - perhaps this was how she treated all her maids. Or perhaps it was merely a sign that Ganga was right, that they were too familiar, and that Élodie had started to see her as a European. Radha found that she did not care that this might be the case.

“All is well,” she said again, allowing herself a tender smile for her strange, lovely mistress. “I must only finish your hair quickly, so you can sleep.”

She dutifully took up a rag and a lock of Élodie’s hair once more, and though her tiredness seemed to weigh heavily on her face like a mask, Élodie smiled back.

* * *

“They are so rich, I did not need to dilute the honey water!” Radha whispered as she hurriedly undressed. Ganga was already in bed, lying flat on her back with the blankets pulled up over her head. 

“She told me to use the bottle as it was, and that she had lots of it,” Radha continued, assuming that Ganga would react with the necessary shock and admiration if she only emphasised just how wealthy their employers surely were.

“That’s good. Please put out the candle.”

Radha blew out the candle obediently, and lay down on her side of the cot. Ganga shifted, pulling her blanket down so that her face was just about visible in the darkness of their little room. In the grey darkness, Radha tried to work out her sister’s expression. She did not look as though she had been crying, but she did not even roll over to face Radha, let alone smile or give some other sign that she was truly well. She merely stared upwards into the dark, and Radha watched her with a growing sense of unease.

“Are you feeling better?” she asked, keeping her voice very low.

“I am perfectly well.”

“Last night -”

“I should not have struck you. I’m sorry, _choti_.” 

“But -” The apology sent Radha reeling, almost distracting her from the fact that Ganga was purposely keeping to herself the reason why she had been crying in the first place. “I - I forgive you, _didi_ , but you were so upset, is there something I -”

“There is nothing for us to discuss, Radha.” Only then did Ganga turn slightly to face her. “Please, leave it be.”

“Yes, _didi_.”

Radha closed her eyes, but only moments seemed to pass before the sound of a bell prompted her to open them again. It was one of the bells in the servants’ hall, and Radha sat up at once, her mind jumping instantly to Élodie and her baby.

“Lie back down, Radha.”

Ganga had already risen from the bed. She drew her dupatta around her shoulders and stooped only briefly to pick up the lamp as she moved towards the door.

“Go to sleep, I will not be long.”

“But if it’s the _memsahib_? What if the baby -”

“Then I’ll fetch you.” Ganga’s voice was quiet, but every word was deliberate. She lit the lamp, and as the flame inside flickered to life, Radha could see her jaw was set. “But I am certain it isn’t her. It’s the _sahib_.”

“Why doesn’t Mr Govind-ji see to it?”

“Because that is not what the _sahib_ has instructed.”

After a pause, Ganga turned the door handle and stepped out into the corridor. She cast a glance back at Radha, her eyes seeming to burn in the darkness. Radha stared at her, trying to work out something, anything, about what she planned to do. As she drew her dupatta over her head, Radha noticed the slump in her shoulders, so different to her usual proud carriage. This still told her nothing. 

“I will not be long,” she said again, before disappearing into the dark.

The first minute of lying alone on her cot was very strange - the room felt almost large without Ganga’s body beside her, the sound of her breathing and the slight movements of another body in sleep. But once her footsteps had retreated and only silence abounded, Radha found herself luxuriating in the solitude. After all, she had not slept alone a single night in her life. A few minutes, perhaps more, with no expectations, no responsibilities, nobody watching. 

She turned onto her side, her back to the door, and realised that the scent of Élodie's honey water still hung around her. She had been so hasty to get into bed, she had not washed her hands. Now, as she brought her palm to her face and drew in a deep inhale, she was back in Élodie’s bedroom, her hands were in Élodie’s silken hair, Élodie’s lips were on hers again. _Only a few minutes_ . Closing her eyes, Radha let one hand slip between her legs. _She will not be long._ She kept the other hand pressed to her face, breathing in the scent of the honey water.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My grandmother, who was born in Shimla when it was still the summer capital of the British Raj, passed away on the 13th of January this year. I have tried to give Radha a little of the grit and determination she showed.
> 
> Language notes:
> 
> jaldi - quickly  
> gora - literally 'white' with a masculine ending, meaning 'white man'. Not inherently derogatory, just descriptive.  
> gori - literally 'white' with a feminine ending, meaning 'white woman'.  
> gore (gor-eh) - literally 'whites', meaning 'white people'.

Captain Blythesea and his family occupied a neat, well-appointed bungalow in the wealthiest part of Simla. There was a chill in the night air, and Radha had tucked a thick shawl around Élodie’s shoulders after dressing her for the soiree. As they climbed the steps of the Blythesea verandah, Radha supported Élodie on the left, while Eugene held her right elbow - she needed both of them for the painstaking climb.

“The Baron and Baroness Auclair!” 

Radha startled at the loud voice, not expecting them to be announced into the room, and found herself gripping Élodie’s hand. As if on cue, almost every person in the room, save for the musicians and the Indian servants, turned to look at them. Élodie gripped Radha’s hand just as tightly, her palm turning clammy.

“Baron, Baroness! I am so very glad you’ve joined us!” 

An Englishwoman approached them, and Radha’s overwhelming first impression of her was that she was _large._ She was imposing in both height and girth, making the man whose arm she held look somewhat diminutive - Radha assumed it was her husband, with his smart coat and a line of medals on his breast. His head just about cleared the layers of white frills at her collar. Her hair was that strange colour that was only ever seen on a European, something between light brown and grey, but it had been perfectly parted and styled with jewels and feathers, and in the middle of the wide, pink face, her eyes were a very pale blue.

“Mrs Blythesea, I presume.” Eugene made a short bow, then offered his hand to the man. “Baron Eugene Auclair - it was an honour to receive your invitation, Captain.”

“Yes, well -” Captain Blythesea hesitated, his eyes flickering to Élodie before he took Eugene’s hand and gave it a short, rather limp shake. “This whole evening is Laura’s doing, really. Now, if you’ll excuse me -” He made a quick bow of his own, though he made no attempt to hide his staring at Élodie this time, whose eyes were trained on the polished teak floor. “Must return to something -”

He retreated back to a group of men in a cloud of cigar smoke.

“You’ll have to forgive John,” said Laura Blythesea with a light laugh. “Ever since Delhi he’s been quite the home-body, no interest in company in the least! Though I suppose I might be the same if I had survived a siege, wouldn’t you?”

She, too, turned her attention towards Élodie, extending both her hands in an almost maternal gesture. Élodie slipped her arm out of Eugene’s to take them, curtseying as low as she could manage.

“Thank you very much for your invitation, madame.”

“Oh, _le français_!” Mrs Blythesea let out another little titter before switching to heavily English-accented French. “You compel me to practise, my dear. Tell me, Baron -” she turned to Eugene, tilting her head in a charming, almost girlish manner, “why do we never see either of you in church? I seem to recall that you arrived in August, though of course I may be mistaken.”

“We are Catholic, madame,” was Eugene’s reply, courteous as always, though Radha noticed that his smile no longer reached his eyes. “We prefer to worship in our own way, at home, as I am sure you understand.”

“Oh, I’m sure we could convince the vicar to burn a little incense, if it could bring you and your wife out of that big house and into our flock.”

Eugene merely inclined his head in reply, his smile a little tighter. “That would be a strange sight indeed, in an English church. Now, I must ask your leave - I have business with a man named Broadhurst, who said he would be here tonight. I will return, Élodie.”

He touched Élodie lightly on the upper arm, and though it looked to be a gentle touch, her face twisted as though he had dug his fingernails into her flesh. Mrs Blythsea smiled congenially until he, too, disappeared into the cloud of smoke at the end of the room.

“My dear, I hadn’t the faintest idea that you were so close to your time! Why on Earth did you accept my invitation?”

A flush had started creeping up Élodie’s neck from under the neckline of her grey gown.

“I beg your pardon, madame, but I must sit down.”

“Oh goodness! A chair!” Mrs Blythesea snapped her fingers at one of the white-uniformed Indian footmen. “A chair for the lady! Christian, _jaldi!_ ”

A chair was brought, the footman setting it behind Élodie. He had a neatly-trimmed black beard and the same impassive look that Radha wore - or tried to wear - when she was in the company of anyone other than Élodie within the walls of Shambhala Manor. He did not look like he should be called Christian, Radha thought, being an obvious native of Simla like herself and the rest of the servants. Their eyes met for the briefest of moments, but a mutual understanding between servants could be formed in so short a time. He stepped back, and Radha helped Élodie lower herself down onto the chair. There was sweat beaded at Élodie’s hairline.

“My back hurts,” she murmured, her voice almost inaudible beneath the noise of the violins that, in that moment, sounded unbelievably ugly to Radha.

“Oh my goodness,” Mrs Blythesea said again, clasping her hands as she looked down at Élodie, her eyebrows furrowed in obvious concern. The Auclairs were strange to other Europeans, then - or perhaps just to the English. “You need a drink, my dear. You, girl,” she addressed Radha, “fetch her some water. _Paani_ for _memsahib_ ,” she said in a halting tone.

“Radha speaks both English and French,” Élodie said, her voice still quiet but a little less wavering. It filled Radha with pride, even though it was somewhat of an exaggeration.

“Oh!” At least this _memsahib_ had the decency to look a little embarrassed. “Well, fetch her a glass of water then, hurry now.”

As Radha slipped through the teeming crowd of expensively-dressed men and women, she offered a silent thanks to the heavens that they did not stare at her. Many of them, mostly the women, were still watching Élodie and Mrs Blythesea in the corner of the room, fans artfully held to their faces to hide whispers and knowing smiles. Did they have no pity, Radha wondered, for one of their own, and a girl at that?

“- don’t know why she invited them,” one woman was murmuring to her neighbour, their fans over their mouths like closed shop shutters. “You’ve heard the talk that he has a native mistress? I have it on good authority that he’s been seen buying gold jewellery - you know, the gaudy type that the local women favour -”

“He might have the decency to keep that sort of thing private! Parading that wife around while keeping a native mistress in finery? One wonders why he didn’t join the army to prove his virility!”

Radha passed them silently, head down, sure that they had no idea how much of their gossip she had understood - for gossip was all it could be, idle gossip and nothing more. Eugene Auclair could not have taken an Indian mistress. He seemed barely able to stand the sight of Indian women, if how he treated her and Ganga was anything to go by. And yet there was truth in what they had said. Élodie wore no fine gold jewellery.

By the time Radha had returned to the corner of the room, glass of water in hand, Mrs Blythesea had pulled up a chair beside Élodie and was evidently trying to engage her in conversation. She had one of Élodie’s hands clasped in both of hers, her head tilted in a way that Radha herself would have found condescending. Élodie did not seem to mind, though her lips were firmly pressed together.

“ - John’s daughter, but she’s just as much my own, and she’s at school in England,” Mrs Blythesea was saying. “She can’t be much younger than you - she’s just turned fifteen. Did you go to school, my dear?”

“I learnt at home, madame.”

Élodie’s eyes caught Radha’s, and relief lit up her wan face. Radha bowed low over the glass of water as she handed it to Élodie, her own gaze trained on the floor so as not to arouse any kind of suspicion in Mrs Blythesea. This formality complete, she moved to stand beside Élodie again, and Élodie shifted ever so slightly towards her. She did not quite lean on her, but seemed to imagine it, as though that were enough to sustain her posture.

“Remember, my dear,” said Mrs Blythesea, her barely-there eyebrows drawn together despite the little smile on her lips, “if you ever need anything, or need to ask anything about life in Simla, I’m only a few roads away. We all need a little help in this strange country, don’t we? There’s no shame in it, none at all.”

Élodie nodded slightly, nursing her glass. Radha guessed that her small, frequent sips served well to free her from the requirement of giving a reply. After a few long moments, Mrs Blythesea rose to her feet.

“Well, I suppose I must get on and see to the rest of my guests. You rest here, Baroness.”

She curtseyed to Élodie, who ducked her own head in response. Gathering her voluminous layers, Mrs Blythesea started to move away, pausing only momentarily beside Radha to lean in close. Radha could smell her perfume, unmistakably artificial but mild and rather sweet, as she leant in to speak into her ear.

“You take care of your mistress tonight, girl. She needs you.”

With those words, she drifted away in a swish of silk skirts.

* * *

The one place that Radha could not take care of Élodie during the soiree was during the dinner itself. The ornate dining room was no place for native maidservants who were not serving; once the Europeans were settled there, Radha was excused to go and find something to eat in the kitchens. She was aware of how Élodie’s eyes followed her as she left, feeling guilty as she did, as if she were abandoning her duty - but it was late, and she was hungry, and surely Élodie would be safe sitting in a plush chair beside the hostess herself?

In the kitchens she was greeted by a warmth and familiarity that instantly put her at ease, even in Shambhala Manor - the smell of local food, the company of other Indians, Hindustani and Punjabi being spoken, and no white faces overseeing everything they did and said. Radha was given a plate piled generously with daal and two rotis, and she settled at one corner of the long wooden table to start eating. As she did so, the footman who had fetched Élodie her chair entered the room and threw himself into the chair opposite her. Christian, Mrs Blythesea had called him. She had suspected his true feelings about his employment when they had acknowledged each other earlier, but he was clearly too well-trained a servant to show them in front of his _memsahib_. Now he was free to look as sour as he pleased.

“You’re the maid of that puffed up _gora_ , aren’t you?” he demanded. “The one with the yellow hair, who looks down on us with such disdain as if we were dogs.”

“His wife,” Radha corrected him, though she made sure that her tone did not sound disrespectful. “Lady’s maid. But yes, I work in his household.” She made no attempt to control her own expression as she said it. Nobody was listening to them.

“It’s disgusting, how they parade around like that. No discretion at all. Can I have some of your roti?”

She inclined her head, letting him tear off a piece of the roti from her plate. “He is the one forcing her to come. She was feeling very unwell, as you saw.”

“Oh, I am sure he forced her to come. That was the only thing he said to everyone he saw! ‘My son is coming soon, my son is coming’! Tell me -” Christian leaned forward, fixing Radha with a searching, almost urgent gaze, “does he know for sure that he will have a son? Do they have some knowledge of a baby before it enters the world?”

“I don’t think so.” Élodie herself did not know the sex of her child, and she had given Radha no impression that there was any way - other than the usual way, of course - to know such things.

“Then they have no power that we do not have here!” He slumped back in his chair, but not before he took another scoop of daal from her plate. As he took it, he looked down at it, and then at her, as if finally realising that he was taking food from the plate of a fellow person. “Thank you, little sister. It is good to be able to speak freely. Tell me, do you have any brothers?”

When she nodded, he continued, a spark of interest in his face, “I hope they are fighting to get the _gore_ out, as I soon will be?”

“Perhaps when they are old enough.” Radha allowed herself a little laugh at the image of her youngest brother, his head barely up to her chest, with a rifle slung over his skinny shoulder. “Narinder will be ready in a few years, but Krishna is only six, so he will need more time.”

“A fellow Krishna!” The footman raised his piece of roti like a toast. “A fine name. Perhaps we will band together when he comes of age.”

“Your name is Krishna?”

“Why does that surprise you?”

“Earlier, Mrs Blythesea called you Christian, and I thought -” Radha floundered, looking at him - Krishna - and wondering how she had ever thought that this man, with his brown skin and full beard, could ever have become one of them.

“That old witch,” he scoffed. “You know what Europeans are like. If they cannot say something, they give it a new name.” 

Thankfully he seemed to take no offence, and Radha allowed herself to laugh at his jab at the Europeans. Ganga was not here to police her behaviour, and this Krishna seemed like the rebellious sort. Radha had not yet met anyone who spoke so openly against the Europeans.

“You know what I believe, little sister?” Krishna’s tone was even but serious. He had stopped chewing, and Radha put her last piece of roti down, giving him her full attention. “I believe they are demons. Look how they have come and laid waste to this country. They steal our land, our resources, they abuse our people, they brutalise our women, they pervert our morals with their garish displays - that yellow-haired _sahib_ of yours is guilty of all of this and more, no doubt.”

“But my _memsahib_ has done none of those things,” Radha heard herself saying before she realised that she was defending a _gori_ , a white woman, before a patriot. He stared at her, eyes round with disbelief, and she scrabbled for a justification. “She was a child when she was married to the _sahib_. Look at her, you saw how ill she is! She is like a slave!”

“Then it is a European practice to wed your daughter to such a man, and to wash your hands of any responsibility towards her? Her parents should be ashamed.”

“Her parents are dead, and she has no other family.”

“Then they made no plans for her during their lifetime, and your _sahib_ took advantage of an unprotected girl.” Krishna shook his head, the decorative gold fringe on his turban swishing quietly. “I don’t know how you can stand to work in such a household. I would have left the day I saw that that man would be my employer. I would not bear the humiliation.”

Radha wondered silently why he had not yet stormed from the house of Captain Blythesea, who by all accounts may have killed some of their kinsmen in the siege in Delhi. Perhaps he was waiting for the best opportunity; Radha certainly couldn’t see herself working for Europeans for the rest of her life. Perhaps she could become a rebel herself, learn how to shoot a rifle and chase the Europeans back to Europe. 

She could not quite picture this future, however. Standing in her mind’s eye was Élodie, and her unborn child. Where were they, in this grand future Radha saw for herself? As long as Élodie remained in Simla, Radha knew she could not abandon her. And so her destiny, like a full raincloud that threatens to break, hung heavily but did not reveal itself.

* * *

That night, Radha was about to leave Élodie to sleep but found herself frozen in the doorway. It didn’t feel right to leave her alone. She had struggled through the dinner and sat in her chair in the corner of the room all evening, her lips tight as if holding back a cry. It did not seem enough to simply dress her for bed and leave her alone. Radha turned in the doorway.

“Do you have any pain?” she asked, scrutinising Élodie’s face. She was more relaxed now, propped up on pillows on the left side of her enormous bed, but she still didn’t look well. “In your stomach, I mean. Your -” she cupped her hands in front of her own stomach, mimicking the swell of Élodie’s belly, and flexed her fingers. She did not know the French word for birthing pains, and did not know how to express them to Élodie. Élodie herself seemed confused.

“I - I don’t know.”

“I can feel your stomach, if you like?” 

When Élodie nodded, Radha made her way back across the room, perching on the edge of the bed and waiting while Élodie drew the blankets aside. She pressed her hands to Élodie’s belly, remembering how her own mother’s belly had hardened and softened before she had delivered Krishna. There was none of that telltale hardness here, and Radha sat back with a quiet sigh of relief.

“The baby is not coming yet. You will know when it is,” she added. Even for a girl as young as Élodie, it would be impossible not to know.

“What if it starts in the night?” Élodie suddenly asked. Radha was about to tell her that she could ring the bell, of course, but was struck by the image of her mistress so incapacitated by pain that she could not reach the pull cord.

“I could sleep in this room, if you like. Then if you need anything in the night, you can wake me.” 

Radha moved to the foot of the bed and settled on the rug, drawing the hem of her sari across her body. It would serve well as a light blanket - the bedroom was kept far warmer than the servants’ quarters.

“You cannot sleep on the floor!”

Élodie was staring at her in abject horror, and Radha scrambled to her feet again. Perhaps she had made some error of etiquette? Ganga had always spoken of sleeping on the floor beside the _memsahib_ ’s bed during times of illness or unrest. 

“Where else should I sleep?” She looked around the room, supposing that Élodie’s easy chair might do.

“In the bed, of course.” Élodie had already pulled back the blankets on the right side of the bed. “It’s big enough for both of us to have plenty of room.” 

“Really?” 

Of course the bed would be large enough for the two of them to share without so much as brushing in the night; Radha had never seen a bed of such monstrous size until she had been employed at Shambhala Manor. All four of her younger siblings could fit in there with them, if they had so desired. It was not a lack of physical space that Radha was concerned about.

“If you like.” Colour had risen to Élodie’s face, the first hints of a healthy flush for quite a few days. “I only wish you to be comfortable.”

The mattress gave way beneath Radha as she climbed into the bed, and she almost felt she should hold onto the sheets in case she sank into the dip she had created. It was quite the luxurious place to sleep.

“You must wake me if you feel any pain,” she told Élodie. Only when her mistress nodded did she extinguish the lamps, plunging the room into darkness. For a few minutes Radha could hear only the sound of the sheets rustling as she shifted, turning first onto her right side, then onto her left. She felt as though she would sink into the floor if she lay in one position too long. Eventually, mindful that she would keep Élodie awake with her fidgeting, she turned onto the right ride, facing her mistress with her right hand underneath her head.

All of a sudden Élodie’s voice broke through the quiet.

“You can leave, if you like.”

“You would like me to leave?”

“No!” The reply came quickly. “But I… I do not wish to control you, Radha.”

Radha turned the words over in her mind. Her first instinct was to laugh, even though she would not dream of laughing at something Élodie said. Had she forgotten that she was the mistress of the house? That she had absolute power over every single servant in the house, and was not only permitted but encouraged to use them to solve her problems and aid her comfort? Élodie may not have chosen the role, but it was hers nevertheless.

“I am not a person who enjoys having power over someone else.” Élodie’s words were quiet but measured, as though she had precisely chosen each one before saying it. “It does not give me pleasure to make people do things that they do not wish to do. Your presence brings me comfort, Radha, but if you prefer to sleep in the servants’ quarters, you must do so. Do you understand?” Her breath caught. Radha moved closer, poised to - to what, she was not sure. “My desires will never be more important than yours.”

“You are very kind,” said Radha faintly.

“Promise me, Radha -” The sheets shifted as Élodie pushed herself up on one elbow. Half-lit by moonlight that had forced its way through the crack in the heavy curtains, her jaw was set in an expression of determination bordering on ferocity. “Promise me that if I ever ask you to do something that makes you uncomfortable, or unhappy, you will refuse.”

“I promise,” Radha heard herself say, even though she was not sure she would be able to keep her word. She had more than Élodie’s wishes to contend with here in this house.

Élodie finally lay down again, turning onto her left side with great effort. Radha could feel her heavy breathing rather than see it. After a few moments of watching Élodie try to settle, she spoke again.

“I had never slept alone until I started working here.”

“Really?” Élodie was still resting her cheek in her hand, her head on the pillow. Her eyes were open again. “Never?”

“I always shared with Ganga, or with my other brothers and sisters. It was very strange during my first night,” Radha chuckled quietly. “Ganga and I have pushed our cots together in our room downstairs. That way it still feels like we are sharing.”

Now that she thought about it, she had not fallen asleep with Ganga for several nights now. The _sahib_ ’s bell had begun to ring more frequently, and even though each night she tried to stay awake until Ganga returned, the hard work of the day always caught up with her, and she would stir only to find Ganga curled up beside her, fast asleep.

“It is good to share,” she finished, hoping that would convince Élodie that she was not here against her will. “It is less lonely.”

“That’s true,” murmured Élodie, though she did not sound quite certain.

“And this is the biggest bed I have ever slept in! I am used to having my littlest brother pressed against me. He still wets the bed, and he likes to kick me.” Radha grinned, hoping Élodie would see even a hint of it in the dark. “If you can try not to do either of those things, I will sleep most comfortably.”

This elicited a quiet giggle from Élodie, and Radha’s heart jumped in her chest.

“I will try my best.”

A hand found hers, and though it came unexpectedly, Radha laced their fingers tightly together.

* * *

Radha felt the sobbing before she heard it. At first she thought it was Ganga, crying again, and she reached out blindly to touch her shoulder. When she found only a thickly-stuffed pillow, she realised with a jolt that she was in Élodie’s bedchamber, in Élodie’s bed.

“Élodie?” she asked, her voice thick with sleep. She could just about make out Élodie’s silhouette, perched on the edge of the bed facing away from Radha, hunched over, her shoulders trembling. Radha sat up straight away, pushing off the heavy covers. “Is something wrong? You are in pain?”

“No, Radha, I’m sorry -” Élodie dragged the white sleeve of her nightgown across her face, not quite holding back a sob. “I didn’t mean to - I didn’t want to wake you -”

“No matter.” Radha fumbled to light the lamp, determined not to let Elodie cry alone in the dark, and when it flickered to life she turned over, resolved to climb out of bed and fetch something to soothe Élodie’s nerves. It was only then that she noticed the bright red smear on the sheet between them.

“You are bleeding?”

Élodie stiffened, then looked over her shoulder at Radha. Her face was pink and tearstained, but Radha’s gaze was drawn to her hand, which gripped the hem of her nightdress. There was another dark patch like red henna paste, its pattern smudged and spoiled.

“What’s happening?” Élodie asked, her voice tremulous.

“I don’t know.” Radha felt a little sick. “We must fetch the doctor.”


End file.
